“Wendy was just telling me about you, Mr, Scarne,” Khan said, putting out his hand and nodding toward his bodyguard. “You will have to forgive Boga. He takes his responsibilities very seriously. This whole Quimper situation has us all on edge, I’m afraid.” Khan’s handshake was firm but not overpowering, his smile and manner charming. “What do you all make of it over at Shields?”
For a moment Scarne had almost forgotten who he was supposed to be.
“I’m only privy to water-cooler gossip, but I get the impression they are taking it seriously.”
“As they should,” Khan said. “Hell, as we all should. A threat to any writer is a threat to us all. Randolph and I disagree on a lot of things, but he has my support on this, and I’ve told him so. These fanatics want to send us all back to the dark ages. But enough preaching! Tell me, why did Shields decide to start reviewing non-financial books?”
Scarne was ready for that one.
“When traditional print advertising started to fall off. We have to broaden our appeal. I believe they’re looking to hire a movie critic as well.”
Khan gave Scarne a strange look, then realized he was being kidded. He smiled good-naturedly.
“Well, I certainly hope that you will give the books that Bengal puts out as much consideration as those by Schuster House.”
“Are you suggesting that I may try to hurt your authors, Mr. Khan?”
Scarne hoped he sounded offended.
“No. No. Of course not. I didn’t mean to imply anything of the sort. I’m sure you will be fair to everyone.”
“I take no prisoners, Mr. Khan. Tripe is tripe. I’ll have you know that I’m preparing a review of a first-time Schuster author that will probably make her a last-time author. Can you imagine, she had the effrontery to write a takeoff on one of the great American novels, creating a character who saves the family plantation after the Civil War by selling bicycles. She calls it Gone With the Schwinn.”
This time, Khan looked stunned. He finally stammered, “Well, Mr. Scarne, good luck. And if you need any help getting any advance copies of our books, don’t hesitate to call me directly.”
He walked away. Wendy Wasser looked at Scarne.
“Gone With the Schwinn?”
“I hear she already sold the movie rights.”
***
From across the room, Vendela Noss watched Chandra Khan. She wondered who the man he was talking with was. Good-looking devil, if dressed funny. She saw Khan follow his squat bodyguard out the door. When she looked back, the other man was gone. She shrugged, adjusted her name tag, which said “Eleanora Fini,” and headed to one of the four bars set up in the corners of the Grand Salon.
A middle-aged woman fell into step besides her.
“Wasn’t Mr. Khan wonderful,” the woman gushed.
Southern accent. Alabama? No. More like coastal Georgia. Vendela was a student of accents. In her profession, that was a useful avocation.
“He certainly was,” Vendela replied, not dishonestly. She, too, had been impressed with Khan’s speech.
They reached the bar, which, with drinks being free, was doing a brisk business.
“Fiction or non-fiction,” the woman said as they got in line.
For a moment Noss drew a blank, until she realized the woman was asking what kind of book she was writing.
“Murder mystery,” she finally replied.
“Where is it set?”
“Liechtenstein.”
This is fun, Noss thought.
“Why Liechtenstein?”
“It has a population of about 40,000. I wanted everybody to be a suspect.”
“That’s brilliant. I bet no one ever thought of that.”
Both ordered white wine. Deciding to be polite, Noss asked, “What are you writing?”
“Oh, nothing as interesting as you. A cookbook. I belonged to a gourmet club in Savannah and I’ve written down every recipe we’ve used over the last 20 years. Some are quite unique, real down-home cooking.”
Vendela smiled. Georgia it was.
“Fascinating,” she said. “Why don’t we grab a table and chat?”
Next to assassinations, Vendela Noss loved to cook.
CHAPTER 14 - TWO VIEWS
Scarne went home to his apartment at 2 Fifth Avenue to pack for his three days at the Bascombe. When he finished, he opened his liquor cabinet and took out his bottle of Bunnahabhain, a single-malt scotch, and poured some in a brandy snifter. He took his drink out to his terrace overlooking Fifth Avenue, kicked back in a plastic chair and put his feet on the railing. He cradled the glass in his palms to warm the scotch, which he liked to drink neat. Beyond the great arch in Washington Square just up the street he could see people strolling through the 10-acre park. His gaze traveled to the other apartments in his building across from his. All were lit up, and some had people, like him, on their terraces enjoying the night. Only one apartment was dark. It had belonged to Ed Koch, the much-beloved three-term New York City mayor whose recent death had saddened everyone in the building and most of the people in the city.
Koch had been just an elevator acquaintance until one day he unexpectedly asked Scarne to stop by his apartment for a drink. He’d poured them both three fingers of Bunnahabhain, and added a drop of water “to release its essence, or some such bullshit.” The old man explained that the scotch had been given to him by an advertiser in one of the magazines to which he occasionally contributed political commentary.
“They say it’s been aged 25 years. What’s the big deal? I have moles older than that. Listen to this.” Koch had picked up some promotional material that had come along with the gift. “A premier single malt whose nose is reminiscent of fudge brownies, florals, notes of wood and light smoke. Its palate is light, complex, nutty, malty, with a touch of pepper, orange, apricot duck sauce, licorice, toffee and coffee. The finish is long, smooth and smoky.”
“Apricot duck sauce?”
“Who cares,” Koch said. “I figure if it has a name you can’t pronounce, it must be pretty damn good.”
They sipped. It was pretty damn good.
“Dick Condon says you are a pain in the ass but he’d trust you with his life. A friend of mine is in a jam.”
At six-foot-two but only slightly diminished by age, the ex-mayor still cut an imposing figure. Even though he had been out of office for years, his high-pitched and somewhat nasally voice still commanded attention. Like many New Yorkers, Scarne had not agreed with all of the man’s policies or decisions, but he had always liked his style. Without even hearing the story, he decided to help with whatever the problem was.
“What do you need, Mr. Mayor.”
Koch smiled.
The friend, in a tight primary race for the City Council, was being blackmailed.
“He’s a good man. Married, couple of little kids. Got drunk and made a pass at one of his aides, who also happens to be male. The aide defected to his opponent and is threatening to go on the six o’clock news unless my friend drops out of the race.”
“How old are we talking about?”
Mayor or no mayor, Scarne had no use for pedophiles.
“We’re not talking Congressional pages,” Koch said. “The aide is in his 30’s. My friend insists that the guy came on to him. He’s going through hell with his wife, but thinks he can patch it up. Time will tell, but meanwhile I can’t see him ruined politically over this.”
It didn’t take Scarne long to find out that the man in question had indeed been set up. The aide and the political rival had long been in bed together, although in this instance only figuratively. Scarne had called Dudley Mack and asked to “borrow” Bobo Sambuca.
A week later, the aide was discovered, apparently on drugs and wearing only a raincoat, wandering the grounds of an exclusive all-boy’s school in Yonkers. His protestations that he had been abducted by a huge bald man driving a hearse were laughable. The tabloids ran wild and the discredited man fled to Colorado. The Mayor’s friend won h
is primary easily. Koch never asked what had transpired. But through the grapevine Scarne found out that the still politically connected icon had gone to bat for him when various prosecutors wanted to question him about a couple of his recent cases that had resulted in a spate of dead bodies. The inquiries were squashed. And the old gentleman also sent him a bottle of Bunnahabhain for Christmas.
Scarne looked across at the darkened apartment. He raised his glass in a toast.
“You did fine, Ed,” he said.
Scarne’s cell phone beeped. It was Emma Shields.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m drinking some of Ed Koch’s fine malt liquor,” he replied. “Unfortunately, without Ed.”
“I thought it wasn’t good for someone to drink alone.”
“An old wives’ tale. And why do you assume I’m alone. The Mayor wasn’t my only friend. For all you know I’m bouncing a naked chorus girl on my knee.”
“You wouldn’t take the chance on spilling your drink.”
“Good point. But you called. So now I’m not alone.”
“You’re sweet.”
“Can’t you sleep? What time is it in Paris? Four in the morning?”
“I’m in Moscow. It’s almost six. I just got up.”
“Tell me about it.”
Which she did. She also gave Scarne the address of the apartment she was renting in Paris in case he was “in the neighborhood” and wanted to drop by.
“Just give me a little notice,” Emma added, “so I can get the naked chorus boy off my knee.”
“I’ll take my chances with naked chorus boys,” Scarne replied.
***
Chandra Khan, looking down at the nighttime traffic from a window adjacent to the fifth- floor terrace of his six-and-a-half story brownstone on West 74th Street just off Central Park West, was also sipping a fine liquor. In his case it was India’s prized Old Monk, the dark rum produced in Ghaziabad, Uttar Pradesh, noted for its subtle vanilla overtones. Although most people traditionally mixed the potent rum with water or a soda, Khan preferred his neat, in a brandy snifter.
There was a knock on the door.
“Enter.”
He heard the slider open. In the reflection from the glass he saw the brutish form approach.
“What do you want, Boga?”
Khan turned around. If it were any other member of his staff, he might have continued looking out the window. But no one voluntarily offered their back to Boga Gulle.
“Do you need me any more tonight?”
The voice had a familiar edge to it.
“No.”
“I would like the night off. I will be back before dawn.”
Gulle rarely left any residence while it was occupied by Khan. The Park Avenue apartment had separate staff quarters just for his use. The other people who cleaned the apartment and did the cooking came by day. Gulle took his meals in the kitchen after they left, or in his room. The day staff feared and avoided him.
There was only one reason he would leave Khan alone.
“You want a woman,” Khan said.
Gulle was silent.
“I told you that you can bring one back to your room anytime. When the staff is not here.”
“They stopped me the last time.”
Gulle was referring to an embarrassing incident the previous month when the building concierge refused entry to the prostitute that he brought home.
“She was disgusting, Boga, a street whore. I told you that you can use an escort service. I will pay.”
“Never mind,” Gulle said, turning to leave.
“Wait.”
Khan knew Boga Gulle was loyal to him, but he knew the violence and pathology that simmered just below the surface of his bodyguard. It would not do to deny the man his outlets. He went to a nearby desk, opened the middle drawer and took out a large roll of bills.
“This is a thousand dollars. If you must use whores, get a call girl at one of the hotel bars. Any of them but the Bascombe.”
Gulle ignored the proffered cash.
“I have money,” he said.
“Remember, this is not London. I do not yet have the same influence. I may not be able to help you if there is another ‘accident’.”
“Before dawn,” Gulle said, and walked away.
Khan watched him, knowing he would soon be cruising the streets near the Lincoln Tunnel where the junkie hookers and their pimps had decamped after Times Square was cleaned up. Gulle liked his sex quick and rough. Sometimes too rough. It had cost Khan £15,000 to cover up the death of that London tart. An expensive piece of ass to be sure. Gulle hadn’t been in his employ very long when it happened, but Khan had already recognized what a unique and valuable asset he was. Khan turned back to the window. It was a clear night. In the distance he could see the winking lights of airliners descending into their landing patterns for the three major airports that served New York City. He wondered if anyone on one of those planes had arrived in the metropolis with the singularity of purpose he had. Or with a flesh-and-blood weapon like Boga Gulle.
CHAPTER 15 - BENGAL TIGER
Chandra Khan knew he was a grave disappointment to his kin. Not that he gave a damn.
For 20 years he had eschewed a guaranteed, if modest, future in the family’s insurance business, ignoring entreaties from his distraught mother and angry father to return home to India. He was not going to waste an Oxford education competing with his dull and condescending older brothers in teeming, steaming Mumbai, where his mother and various aunts were already arranging his marriage to the plump daughter of the man who ran one of the largest call centers in Noida, just outside Delhi.
With platoons of beautiful British women easily charmed by his exotic good looks, the strapping six-foot-four Khan saw no need to marry. Blessed with a nuclear metabolism, he rarely slept more than four hours a day. The rest of the time he spent either working or satisfying his insatiable sexual appetite.
Using relationships forged at Oxford, where he was a star rower, and later in The City of London working for Burns Capital, a small but aptly named bottom-feeding private equity firm, Khan had decided to seek his fortune in publishing. Burns Capital gutted companies and sold off their healthy divisions at obscene profits. Junior to the firm, for almost a decade Khan labored in a backwater unit of the firm that specialized in media properties. He was well-paid but ignored, and somewhat pitied, by the other investment bankers. They were friendly enough, in a politically correct sort of way, but they knew a loser when they saw one. They were going places; he wasn’t. It was a mystery to some of them. A man with those Bollywood looks – Khan’s success with women was well known and envied – shouldn’t waste himself in the firm’s least-promising unit. But he was less competition for them, so they didn’t dwell on it.
That suited Khan. He was exactly where he wanted to be. Early on, he realized that the Internet was a game-changer in publishing and that while some of his cohorts were making a fortune destroying brick-and-mortar companies, his time would come. And it did. Distressed media companies began falling into his lap. He paid particular attention to publishers, snapping them up, large and small.
Khan used the same slash-and-burn tactics on the publishers he did on any acquisition. He raided existing pension plans and fired people who didn’t make money for their company. In publishing, that meant editors whose books didn’t sell. In fairness, many of the editors were hidebound anachronisms who ignored changing literary tastes and needed their grandchildren to help with a computer. But there were also many cultured, intelligent editors who had nurtured respected authors for decades. To them, a superior novel that sold a few thousand copies a year and lost a bit of money was a small price to pay for the honor and respect it brought to the industry, indeed, to civilization. To Chandra Khan, they were idiots.
He kept younger, aggressive editors who specialized in fiction that catered to the masses. Although not much of a reader himself, he realized that most of the books his “re
vitalized” publishers were putting out were trash. But the public seemingly couldn’t get enough of the gratuitous gore and soft-core pornography that made up much of his publishing list. His book covers dripped with blood, most of which usually ended up on some vixen’s protuberant bosom.
Soon, Khan’s peers at Burns Capital began to show him a little respect. They even gave him a nickname, “the Bengal Tiger,” for the sharp fiscal claws he applied to the balance sheets of victim companies. But Khan’s superiors at Burns Capital, while not averse to cutting workers and slashing pension plans, didn’t relish the publicity, including an occasional obscenity trial, that his division spurred. So, when Khan told them he wanted to spin off his unit into a stand-alone publishing house, they didn’t object. They even provided some start-up capital, in return for a small piece of the business – as silent partners, of course. The new entity had potential, after all.
Thus, Bengal Publishing Ltd., was born, and quickly provided Khan with a lush lifestyle that included frequent trips back to India (to lord his success over his brothers with Bollywood actresses on his arm and in his bed) and to the haunts of the rich and famous in Europe and Asia. But Khan had accumulated some powerful enemies, notably in the unions and guilds whose members he fired. Or cheated out of their pensions. Strikes he didn’t worry about. The public was on his side. But some of the union leaders were tough men, with connections in the London underground. Racially, they didn’t like the Indian upstart. There were threats and acts of sabotage. Khan saw things begin to unravel.
Then he found Boga Gulle. Or, rather, his brothers found him when he went to them with his problem. His family may have considered Khan a black sheep, but he was their black sheep. They made inquiries in New Delhi among the Haji Dolas, one of the most violent of the “Indian mafias,” based in Mumbai but with tentacles throughout the country. They had been forced to deal with the hoodlums in order to survive in their own business. Khan acquired a newfound, if grudging, respect for his brothers, who apparently weren’t as dull as they seemed. He also acquired the fearsome Boga Gulle, who was soon on a plane to London.
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